


Dressed for Success

by notthelasttime, the_mad_duchess



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Clubbing, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Relationship, excessive use of body glitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 22:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthelasttime/pseuds/notthelasttime, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mad_duchess/pseuds/the_mad_duchess
Summary: A sleazy club, a drug bust, and poor timing.Cor Leonis comes to find there's another side to Ignis Scientia.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm blaming the-mad-dutchess for instigating this lmao first with [this ask](http://the-mad-duchess.tumblr.com/post/177811336151/young-apprenticeadvisor-ignis-being-assigned-to) which then turned into an [impromptu collab](http://the-mad-duchess.tumblr.com/post/177839734546/the-mad-duchess-notthelasttime)
> 
> edited/revamped since it was first posted on tumblr

Between the club’s neon signs and the police car’s flashing lights, the throng of people outside were painted in alternating colors, bass of the music still thumping heavy in the background despite the fact that there was no one left on the dance floor. The club had been emptied out, suspects placed under arrest and all the rest, guilty by association, had been cordoned off, not yet free to leave. There was no shortage of nervous tittering, whispers wondering when they could go, and no shortage of looks in Cor Leonis’s direction, fleeting, careful things, done like he wouldn’t notice. He pretended not to. Better not to add fuel to fire.

In the back seat of a police cruiser, staring straight ahead, sat Ignis Scientia. Cor watched him, his shirt half unbuttoned and hair styled to defy gravity, skin sparkling iridescent, covered with glitter. It was hard to reconcile Ignis-  _this_  Ignis, with the kid that had been following him around the Citadel, tasked with learning a thing or two about how the Lucian Military was run. Always covered, fully buttoned up and gloves on his hands, thick glasses hiding his face while he took notes on Cor's every word.  _Kid_. A word to keep a wedge between them and remind Cor of their respective places. Something to keep him in line. Even if he saw the way Ignis bristled every time Cor called him  _kid_  instead of his name.

The lights changed, reflected on his placid face, flashing red then blue, then blue then red. Ignis turned his head and caught Cor staring, Cor cleared his throat and turned away.

He was back there for his own good, as much to keep him out of sight as out of trouble. All it would take was one person with a good enough memory to recognize him, someone to snap a picture on their phone, and suddenly the next morning every headline would read something scandalous about the Prince’s Advisor getting caught at a drug bust, all dressed up and perfect for an exaggerated story about some secret double life. It would be a PR nightmare. Cor knew it as much as Ignis must have when they first stormed the club. It was probably why Cor caught him trying to sneak away, to run and hide somewhere before they got around to questioning him and realized who he was. But this wasn’t amateur hour and Cor would be damned if he let a suspect slip away on his watch. He caught Ignis by the wrist, firm grip and holding strong, and tugged him back just before he could disappear. And when the young man in his grasp turned to face him he was a second short of recognition when a familiar voice calmly said, “Good evening Marshal.”

He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

That and the hair, the  _outfit_ , one that made him look like he had no intention of leaving that club alone, and something about the thought had Cor’s stomach clenching in an uncomfortable way, making him tense. It made him scowl, at himself and his own stupidity. He wasn’t Ignis’s keeper, the kid could do whatever he wanted on his off hours, and provided he hadn’t been at the wrong club on the wrong night, no one at the Citadel would have been any wiser. They all had to blow off steam somehow, and there were worse things than clubbing, even at clubs with questionable reputations. Being under so much pressure and the need to always be perfect, it all only meant there was that much more of a chance for someone like Ignis to snap.

As a general rule, Cor Leonis did not play favorites and did not make exceptions to due process. No one was exempt from their own bad decisions as far as he was concered. His frown deepened, excuses about appearances and PR nightmares on the tip of his tongue. He went to have a word with the chief of police. They were almost done here anyway.

Minutes later and he was opening the door of the cruiser to let Ignis out. A gesture met with curiosity, judging by the way Ignis was looking at him as he stood up, but there was something defiant there as well, in the way he kept his head held high. The same defiance he saw when he’d caught Ignis trying to escape, like he was just waiting, just daring Cor to say something about how he spent his personal time. The same defiance when Cor had asked what the hell he’d been doing here, and Ignis had unflinchingly replied, “Dancing.”

He did not act like a man caught up in a drug bust by his superior officer.

“Come on,” Cor said, “I’ll take you home.”

In the passenger’s seat of Cor’s car, Ignis sat silent. There were a hundred things he could have said and all of them wrong, most of them none of his business, too many of them crossing the line between personal and professional. They were coworkers. Coworkers first, hardly even friends second. 

(And no, Cor would not admit that he was thinking about Ignis, dancing under flashing lights and lost in the music, wondering if Ignis was thinking about all the people he could have taken home, or if his mouth still tasted of liquor).

Ignis had said, in that same defiant way, he’d had nothing to do with the drugs. Cor believed him, despite a lifetime in trained suspicion. But Ignis by day, the clean-cut and mild mannered by the book Chamberlain was still the same man sitting next to him now. And Cor took his word as the truth. Knew him well enough to trust him, at least, even with all his new revelations.

He slowly pulled up to the front of Ignis’s apartment building, saved from the task of trying to figure out what to say, when Ignis said, “I’ll see you in the morning, Marshal,” and then slammed the door and was gone.

Nothing but glitter left glinting in the low light on the passenger’s seat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here goes the smut! I hope you enjoy it, and it does @notthelasttimes chapter justice!  
> It's a slightly revised version from the one I posted on tumblr.

After the door shuts behind him, Ignis doesn't switch on the lights. Several hours in the club and the blinding lights of his hallway seem less than appealing. His eyes slightly itch, tired after the long night. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. There’s a reason why he prefers wearing glasses normally. Noctis may tease him about being a four-eyes and call him Specs, but Ignis prefers the comfort of a pair of glasses compared to the little plastic lenses he is wearing at the moment. His frames don’t really match his clubbing outfit, though, and he allows himself this little instance of vanity when going out.

 

Now that Noct lives on his own, his place rarely ever sees visitors anymore.

There’s only Ignis shoes and jackets at the entrance, only his slippers visible in the light spilling in from the lone street lantern in front of his apartment.

No black fluffy slippers, no chocobo-print ones either. His entrance area is deserted, empty and impersonal, almost clinical. Ignis takes off his own shoes and patters toward the bathroom on socked feet, finding his way by memory.

The darkness and silence in his apartment taste an awful lot like loneliness.

 

In the bathroom, Ignis flips on the little light by his bathroom mirror. The world feels soft and blurred around the edges, alcohol and adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

 

Washing his face feels nice, the cold water refreshing and sobering. Taking out his contacts without poking himself in the eye is less pleasant and a challenge in his current state, but he manages and plops the lenses in their liquid-filled plastic containers.

They'll disappear into the back of his bathroom cabinet until the next time long working hours and too much Ebony pile up and he needs to scratch that particular itch again.

 

Ignis’ clothes are smelling of cigarette smoke and the sweat of too many strangers, covered in glitter and spilled alcohol. He peels out of them and stuffs them into a plastic bag.

Tomorrow, he will wash them in the sink before handing them over to the laundry service. Servants are quick to gossip, after all, and it only takes one of them tempted by the money of Insomnias gossip rags to ruin his reputation, or at least call his ability as advisor to the future king into question. For now, though, they are tomorrow's problem.

 

The water of the shower is warm, wetting his hair, softening the gel and hairspray that has been holding it up until now, plastering brown strands against his forehead and his face.

 

Rivulets of water and dirt are running down his body, washing away all traces of the night. As much as he loves going out, the feeling of washing off the grime and sweat and alcohol is always a divine one. His bathroom is slowly fogging up, water condensed on his mirror and the glass shower walls around him. He feels slightly off-balance and unsettled after the nights events.

 

Ignis closes his eyes and enjoys the warmth, the events of the night replaying behind his eyes. The marshal always cuts an imposing figure, no matter if it is on the training grounds, overseeing the crownsguard recruits, or behind his desk, reading documents with a frown on his face.

 

What he has seen of him in the past couple of weeks has only confirmed Ignis’s impression that the other man is not only incredibly competent on the battlefield, but also possesses a sharp mind and an occasional sense of humour, whenever the carefully crafted mask of strict superior officer slides away for a few seconds.

 

It doesn’t help that he has always thought the other man handsome, in a rugged way that spoke of experience and strength, and seeing the older man’s intense blue gaze fixed at him tonight, the car dark and quiet around them, bathed in red and blue, had hit him in a way Ignis hadn’t expected.

 

The marshal’s gaze had almost felt like a physical touch, all this attention and focus fixed on Ignis.

 

He can still feel it like a phantom touch lingering on his skin, and a quiet moan escapes Ignis’ throat as heat begins to stir low in his belly. He knows what this is, knows what the feeling of desire pooling in his gut means.

 

Up until now, he's always only looked at other men but never acted on it. Not for lack of wanting to - too high the risk of getting caught. But the way the Marshal looked at him today awoke something in him, and he’s part of the Citadels staff just like Ignis. A little indulgence in a fantasy in the privacy of his bathroom surely can’t hurt?

 

Ignis slowly starts to run his hands over his chest, light touches that make him shiver and break out in goosebumps despite the warmth surrounding him. By now, his bathroom is fogged up completely from the heat of the water.

 

Ignis’ skin feels too tight and feverish to contain him, and when he drags his fingers across a nipple and pinches, he can’t hold back his voice. Pleasure shoots through him, sweet and painful at the same time as his nails scratch his chest, and the sounds of his breathing and gasping echoes through the bathroom, thrown back by the tiled walls.

 

He leans his head against the brown tiles, the cold a welcome change to how burning hot his skin feels, and lets his right hand wander lower. His fingers scratch across his hipbone, the skin there thin and sensitive, and wander lower into the light hair dusting his treasure trail while he thinks about the Marshal on the training grounds -

clad only in dark training pants, broad shoulders accented beneath a black shirt.

Cor Leonis cuts an impressive and powerful figure in whatever he wears, full of strength and with the scars to show, but the muscles in his back so visible through the thin fabric is a sight to behold.

 

The thought makes Ignis pant and shiver as he moves finally moves his hand down and grips himself. He is hard and leaking already.

 

When he finally touches himself, his breathy moans and gasps fill the bathroom, sounding obscene mixed in with the sounds of the shower and the slick slide of his hand on his cock. He's feeling hot and feverish, wound tight like a spring, pleasure fizzling through his veins like electricity. In his chest, his heart is beating hard and fast.

 

Here he is, jerking off to the thoughts of Cor Leonis, The Immortal, Marshal of the Crownsguard, his superior, who caught and almost arrested him today. His mind wanders towards how the Marshal had grabbed him earlier, and he can still feel the Marshals hand gripping his wrist, sword calluses rough on his skin.

 

Imagining how it would be like to be touched all over by these hands is what finally tips him over the edge.

 

He comes with a choked-off groan and full-body shakes, knees weak and barely able to hold him up as pleasure races like fire through his veins, his vision whitening out for a moment. Come splatters against his stomach, dripping out of his cock onto the wall and leaving behind stringy and sticky patches of wetness. Exhausted and with heavy-lidded eyes Ignis watches his semen get slowly washed down the drain as he leans against the wall.

 

After quickly finishing his shower, he towels himself off and lays down naked on his bed.

A long working day followed by a long night of dancing and alcohol as well as his orgasm are catching up with him, making him feel drowsy and dizzy, his eyes heavy.

 

His bed is still cold and emptier than he'd like it to be, the sheets crips and his room quiet instead of filled with another person's breathing and their heat at his back, but that's not something he can do anything about right now.

After plugging in his phone, alarm set to go off in only a few hours for yet another day of coaxing Noct to _please_ do his royal duties, Ignis drifts off, thankful about the ebony in his kitchen and thoughts of the Marshal on his mind.

 

~'~

 

Cor Leonis is not A Car Person.

He is not like Regis, who has a million pictures of the Regalia on his phone, a framed one on his living room wall and spends his rare spare time polishing out invisible spots whenever his son is unavailable.

 

No, Cor couldn’t care less about cars.

 

He prides himself, however, on treating his gear with care, keeping it clean and well taken care off at all times, and doing so himself.

 

His car is not clean now. Cor looks at it, leather seat and floor on the passenger’s side covered in glitter, and is close to despairing. He's tried vacuuming it off, but that only removed some of the glitter, the rest still stuck the seat with sweat and other things Cor doesn’t want to know about.

 

He tries hard not to think about how Ignis looked when he sat there, looking so differently than he normally does, in pants that looked like they’d been painted on, glittering chest partially visible and eyes glowing in the dark.

 

It is very hard not to think about Ignis when the proof of last night is covering Cor’s car. A wet cloth only seems to spread the mess around even more, his car seat is now wet and covered in glitter, and in addition the stuff started sticking to his hands as well.

 

Cor stares at the glitter. It sparkles back at him, as if it is mocking him.

 

For once in his life, Cor loses a staring contest and resigns himself to buying a new car. Or maybe a new seat, and burn the old one. Sure, he _could_ ask Regis, but no way is he going to be able to explain why his car is covered in glitter. Better to silently get rid of it with nobody the wiser, probably.

 

With a sigh, he locks the car and heads to his office. His secretary isn't there yet, the door still locked. When he opens it and enters, he does a double-take.

 

There, sitting on his desk, is a small jar. Next to it is a handwritten note with no name on it, but Cor knows exactly who it is from.

 

'Oil works best for removal. Please allow me to invite you to dinner to make up for the inconveniences.'

 

Ignis will be the death of him one day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concrit always welcome!  
> You can find me on my tumblr, the-mad-duchess, come into my askbox and flail with me about FF XV ❤


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